


militiae species amor est

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Ars Amatoria, Conventional Setting, Drabbles, Middle Ages, Multi, Ovid, less discussed pairings, rework
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-09-11
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:46:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7360078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rarer fare. A look at less attention-grabbing ASoIaF pairings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. for what was lost - bael the bard/unnamed female stark

 

 

 

 

 

 

She blinks slowly, the startled smile bleeding into a mien wrought with uncertainty. Fingers linger just above his palm, still holding the bloom. “I have no need of flowers,” she tells him, allowing the gift to drop back in his hold.

“But the lord of the keep does.” Her lips part in slight surprise.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Bael sinks to his knees in the dank, dark crypt, holding the woman’s waist between powerful hands. “Come with me.” It is a selfish thing to ask of her. This kneeler woman with eyes of steel and sharp grins and dreams, dreams underneath her too-serious face. ”We can live together, free. Beyond the Wall.”  Her small, lithe form trembles at the promise, hand reaching out. He can see the longing in her face. So close.

He glides his hands along her naked hips, the joy of her body calling again, siren’s song a melody thrumming in his veins. She parts for him, clefting like the sea before the rocky shores. Her head is buried in his neck, breath coming short grasps. “I will teach you the ways of the free folk.” She pulses around him, an incoherent murmur on her lips, the warmth a scourge and a blessing. Bael wouldn’t mind if by her hands the scourge would grow into torment. Nay, he thinks, he would die for this woman, but he would rather live for – with – her. “Be mine.” His voice breaks upon the last word, in effects delivering a question.

“I am yours,” she whispers against his skin, her voice a ghost in their palace of death. His seed runs along the inside of her thigh and onto his own when they part ways. Her mouth seeks his hungrily, the she-wolf bearing her fangs. And again she begs with her body to be fashioned into something of his own making. “But I am a Stark. I belong to Winterfell.” And the tragedy of this honesty leaves him breathless.

He has to share her with the walls and ambitions of her father. He will always have to. Bael feels the anger swell, the wound burst and his patience fade. This time it is the ground against her back. This time he is a punisher. And she moves against him like a summer breeze, the crushed winter rose spilling curling petals still as he holds onto her, mind working against her words. “What do I have to do for you to follow me beyond the Wall?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

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“If it is a daughter, I shall join you,” she tells him, lying there with him as their world widens. This is the only promise he can hold o n to, her other a cost too dear to even consider. “If it is a son, I must stay and see him the proper lord when my father dies. “

Bael prays for a daughter. He prays they only have daughters, in fact. Daughters with her hair, eyes, sharp smiles and too-serious face. How can he let her go without tearing his heart to shreds? Gods forgive him, but he would sling her over his shoulders and see her out of this place with her consent or without. And yet the thought of such fine eyes laying blame on him causes pain the likes of which he cannot accept. How the gods must be laughing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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She gives him a son in the end. Proud mother, the she-wolf cradles the babe to her breast watching the infant suckle. “A boy, a lord for my home.”

And just like that understanding dawns upon Bael. She loves her home. She would do anything for her home. She loves these stones and worships their shadow in the same way he does her. “Why did you come with me here?” Gods damn it. Angered again, he stands up and moves away from her and her precious infant, fingers curling.

That very night he leaves, swearing that he will never come back. The harsh wind delivers stinging cuts against his cheeks. Never. Bael promises in his grief. “Never again will I let you fool me, woman,” is what he tells her when she does try to stop him.

He does wish she would follow, not just stand in the crypts with tear-stained cheeks.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Five years past, Bael finds himself again in her presence. She is the Lady of Winterfell, looking every inch her father’s daughter, acting as regent to her son. Bael does not want to hear about the child, nor see him. If he looks upon the boy’s face, he will recognise him and this man desperately wants to cling to the bitterness and his pain of betrayal. So he hushes the woman and does what wildings do best.

Yet as luck would have it, he wakes in the middle of the night to the creaking of the door and a pair of wide eyes looking upon the stranger in the home; and he feels the intruder with those innocent orbs so intense in their quietness. His son looks like his mother as far as eyes and mouth go, but the rest of him is Bael. His heart squeezes painfully, as if a dagger had been trust within, and he makes a sign for the child keep silent. The boy climbs into the bed and under the covers.

“Are you my father?”

“Nay.” Because he isn’t. He never could be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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They fight upon snow and ice; father and son clash swords as warriors fall around them. Bael loses on purpose. He can’t bring himself to plunge the sword into the chest of this kneeler. It’s those eyes and that face that has grown too-serious.

The boy, though, has no compunction about bringing down his sword. Bael smiles sadly. This is his seed and blood, this is what was born out of his love and hatred. All this for her. “Do it!” And he feels the pain of it briefly.

In his mind he can see her smile and her eyes light up, and wistfully he wonders what could have been.           

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reading about courtly loves does put one in the mood for Ovid and his treatise on love.


	2. the foot of the mountain - orys b./argella d.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The round arch of her brow mesmerises Orys enough that he would not draw any closer than he is now, a mere step away from proud Argella, and he continued to adore her with his gaze, the immovable child of salt and foam, daughter of lightning. She bites into the blood-orange piece, vermillion stickiness clinging to her already rosy lips. The tip of her finger pushes the remaining half within her mouth, lingering briefly.

Orys allows himself a sigh and leas back in his seat. “Shall you be gone long?” his wife questions, eyes glistening in the low light. The heavy furred coat upon her shoulders slips away, revealing the black of her dress sewn with gold threads.     

He puts his cup away and reaches out to take hold of her hand. “Not as long as it took to please you, I am certain.”

Her lips arrange themselves in a thin smile.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They stand together at the gates, she resplendent and radiant in the rich velvets received upon her wedding, he fully in warrior’s garb, metal shining in the miserly sunlight, his steed at his side, beating angrily at the ground with metal-clad hooves.

“I wish you good fortune and steady arm, my lord,” she says, the lilt of her voice carrying over the general commotion. “May the gods bring you back safely to your home.” She never refers to it as her home. He finds that strange.

“I will return to you, lady wife,” he promises. Ignoring the reluctance he sees on her face, Orys reaches out and wraps an arm around her. “Let a kiss seal our farewell.”  

She gives in like a wave before the abrupt cliffs, falling into his arms, lips touching his gentle. Heat seeps through him and he curses the duty which urges him away from this woman.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He kneels over in the dust, sharp pain holding him captive, Death looms just above him. Orys closes his eyes, the sound of cries filling his skull like water floods valleys after heavy rains. His own lips open in a soundless call for aid, eyes closing.

He hears the sword cutting through the air. Argella stands before his mind’s eye, a soft smile on her face as she dances at the coronation feast. Instinctively, his arms thrust up, the unrelenting grip he had on the weapon bringing steel against steel. The enemy falls away.

And Orys stands then, emboldened by some ravenous demon crying out for blood. His broken men are strewn all about. He is lord of the carnage, bringer of death and too much near defeat for any of it to matter.

Someone yells as battle-rage mounts. Orys whirls around, bringing the side of his sword with him. But his opponent is not alone.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The dirty straw crunches beneath Wyl’s heavy steps. The man crouches before him and holds Orys’ chin up. “Frightful heat, isn’t it?” All the men are sweltering in their manacles.”One would think your King would hurry to save his men.” His other hand holds up a skin. Keen senses can already hear the wine move heavily within. But Orys won’t allow himself to be humiliated like a dog. “Might be he does not mean to save you at all.” Wyl laughs, his voice thick.

He lets Orys’s head fall, uncorks the skin and takes a deep drink. Orys greets his teeth, the taste of sand in his mouth grating. “When our host takes your king, your land and your pride, I shall be sure to seek out that pretty wife of yours. A widow after my own heart she’ll be.”

His anger is a violent tug on the chains that hold him.

But the Wyl merely japes, “I’ll thrust her against a wall yet.”   

 

 

 

 

 

     

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

  

There is gold enough to free ten of him, Orys thinks as he looks at the heavy golden chain, the coin and the bars, along with brooches and jewellery. This gold could free an army of thousands all put together. Bitterness wells up within him, a swell of sickness causing him to double over. His stomach loses all contents.

But the Dornish soldiers show him no mercy. They drag at his weakened body, forcing him atop his poor steed, the animal bearing marks of ill treatment as well. Whoresons the lot of them, Orys thinks through the thick fog of the fever.

But he ails and falters, barely able to keep his seat, let alone bring wrath down upon the Dornish scum. Muscles burn with the burden of his loss and Orys looks down upon his stump, the ugly sight enough to freeze the soul within him. His teeth gnash together run uncomfortably.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He falls at her feet, half-crazed and mumbling, thick fingers catching into the heavy drapes of her skirts. Argella catches his head against her middle, trying to sooth the demons into submission. But Orys is bigger, stronger and beyond reason. So she falls after him with the drag of his hands. “Husband, enough,” she tries to capture his attention.

But in the end it takes three servants and the master-at-arms to disentangle them and carry the lord of Strom’s End up the stairs, into his bedchamber.

Smarting pride, Argella brushes lint off her skirts and squares her shoulders, raising her chin proudly, defying any of those present to react to what they have seen. Wise heads bent in feigned ignorance and she turns away from them, following the path of her servants. She wants to rage. She wants to run to their King and spit in his face. She paid for a whole husband to be returned to her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

  

When he comes to her face hovers above him, one hand raised. On instinct Orys coils, rolling away from danger, one hand shooting out. Her braid is captive to his fingers, his harsh tug eliciting a cry of pain from her. “Husband nay, ‘tis Argella, your wife. ‘Tis me. Do not harm me.”

Her voice penetrated his skull, sleep-drowsiness draining away. He lets go, the sharp pain in his other arm causing him to falter. Orys looks down.

He is balancing his weight on a stump. He falls.

The bed dips. A hand curls around his naked shoulder, urging him backwards. And then his head is in Argella’s lap, soft cloth washing perspiration from his neck, its cool kiss soothing. Exhaustion forces his eyes closed.

“What have they done to you, husband?” he hears his wife question from somewhere far off. He would answer, but sleep has already taken him, the earlier burst of energy forgotten.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The clumsy movement causes the thick gruel to leak from the spoon onto Argella’s dress. Orys cruses and throws it away, nerves stretched too thin. His wife retrieves the object and dips it in the concoction, bringing it up to his lips. “Eat. It’s the only way you’ll regain your strength.”

Incensed  beyond control at being treated like a babe on teat, he slaps her hand away, a roar on his lips, “What good would that do me, woman? I’m an invalid!” Stunned, Argella looks at him with hurt. He leans back against the mound of pillows sullenly, not breaking contact. “Away.”

The order is met with a stubborn shake of the head. She pushes the bowl of food away as she advances towards him and it lands somewhere on the floor, contents making a mess on the ground. “You are my husband and lord of this keep. You must be strong.”

He almost believes her.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Warm water sloshes over the rim of the copper tub, spilling on the ground. Steam curls heavenwards and the fire crackles happily in the hearth. Orys hears the door open with a low whine but refuses to turn towards it. He is instead contemplating his stump, red from heat and hassle.

The door closes and within moments limber arms wrap around his shoulders. The gossamer-thin material he feels against his back absorbs the moisture and cool lips press against the back of his ear. Argella’s hand reaches for the washing-cloth and she dips it in water, bringing it back over his chest and shoulders. Her lips slide lower, falling to his neck. The hard points of her breasts poke against the muscles in his back and the cloth is suddenly adrift.

Her hand inches down his front beneath the water surface, wrapping around him. Orys’ head falls back, lips releasing a long sigh. She flicks her wrist.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Frustrated, Orys slams the door to the bedchamber shut. No matter how much he trains, his blasted left hand won’t cooperate. He is almost ready to fall upon his bed when the mounds of furs part and Argella sits up, bare-chested, a smile upon her lips. “I thought you would never come,” she rasps.

Orys sighs and his shoulders drop. “Have I not promised I would always return to you?” She nods seemingly pleased. Shaking off the rest of the covering, Argella crawls towards him as he approaches.

“Come to me then. I’ve missed you.” The confession produces a sweet frisson that licks at his spine in long laps. She sits again, feet dangling over the bed’s edge. His knee nestles in the gap she leaves between her thighs and Argella falls back like a keep conquered, reaching out with her hands. He wastes no time and follows. Her fingers tangle in his hair, his fingers grip her hip.      

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how this turned out. It's my first Orys/Argella. Hopefully, I didn't make a muck out of it.


	3. it's all over now - alysanne t./jaehaerys t.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gael is still looking expectantly at her, the smile upon her slightly rounded face never fading. Alysanne is stunned to say the least. She takes the ribbons from her daughter’s hand nonetheless and instructs her to turn around. Thick curling hair greets her when Gael presents her with her back. She braids the best she can with her child fidgeting, asking every once in a while, “Is it long now, mother?”

“I am almost done, sweetling,” she assures the impatient girl. “Why the change of heart, though? I thought you liked it best flowing.”

Choked giggles are the first answer. “It will make me look lovely, mother. Like the Maiden.” Alysanne cannot argue with that. She shakes her head instead and finishes the task, binding the braid.

“You are already lovely, Gael.” Lovely and sweet and always hers. “Be off with you then,” she encourages, giving the girl’s shoulders a slight push. That is all her daughter needs to take off.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fingers entwined for all and sundry to behold, Alysanne keeps her eyes upon her husband who is enraptured with the performance of the travelling company. They are not as good as all that, she thinks to herself, but doesn’t reveal any of it. Instead, she shifts her attention to the bard whose song now fills her hall.

Drumming the fingers of her other hand in time with the rhythm, she allows herself to be entertained. “We should allow for such moments more often,” she tells Jaehaerys over the harp’s soft melody. “Look how enchanted Gael is.” Her daughter had brought her hand s together over her chest.

A chuckle leaves the man’s lips. “Anything for my two favourite ladies.” He squeezes her hand, an old habit of his.

Alysanne smiles and squeezes back with more vigour. “Trying to charm me, Your Majesty?”

She catches his nod. “Is it working?”

“Always,” she laughs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Combing through the lines, Alysanne comes upon a set of lines which makes her smile. There is a small draw of the quill at the end of the last of them. A sign Jaehaerys made upon their wedding night. Her husband looks up from his task momentarily. Their eyes meet and hold. With a smile he resumes writing and she return to reading.

The days have become uncommonly long. Alysanne wonders if it is because there are no more bards to sing or if it has to do with Gael’s newfound obstinacy. The girl wants little more than to sit in the grass and sleep. It drives her to distraction. And Jaehaerys assuring her that ‘tis little more but a phase and shall pass does not warm her. If anything, it drives her even further into unease. How can he be so dismissive?

Her eyes are upon the words once more, but the warmth has left.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He kisses her cheek and then down the column of her neck he goes. “You are so distracted.” No more than he though, Alysanne musses, embracing her husband. “You’ve barely said a word to me. This silence unnerves me.”

“And well it should,” she answers, the cork blocking all her worries from spilling over has been removed. “I am unnerved as well.” She feels him grow rigid and draw back. Jaehaerys is looking into her eyes, a frown in place.

Once he’s seated upon the edge of the bed, he takes her hands in his. “And what has soured your disposition so? Is it one of the servants? A lady-in-waiting might be? One of my lords? Tell me which ones and I will deliver swift punishment.” He is only half jesting.

“Gael is unwell. There is aught wrong with her.” Jaehaerys drops her hands, all traces of amusement fading.

“Alys, don’t start,” he warns softly.

“Don’t start what?” is her belligerent reply.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gael is better. Her cheeks are rosy once more and she smiles with all the sweetness within her. Alysanne is still holding her hand when they come upon the King. Her daughter curtsies, she follows. And then Gael jumps in her father’s arms, her limbs thrown around him.

Jaehaerys laughs at the display and embraces their child back. He kisses the top of her head and then both her cheeks. “What have we here?” he asks after a few short moments. “I seem to have found a maiden who has grown roots.”

Her daughter laughs and to Alysanne the sound is oddly grating. Her heart squeezes in warning, but she waves the fear away. All is well. “Truly?” she offers, joining the game. “Let me see them for myself.”

Gael shrieks with joy and takes to her feet. “You cannot catch me.” She is off down the thin ribbon of a road, laughter following her steps.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waking awash in cold sweat, Alysanne cries out sleep-befuddled and unknowing of her current location. One of her ladies is already at her bedside, holding a light in her hands, quiet questions upon her lips. “Your Majesty, shall I bring you a drink of wine?” Her hand is pressed to Alysanne’s forehead. “Might be a change of gown.”

Her wits return slowly. Alysanne nods. “A cup of wine would be just the thing.” Looking down upon herself, she grimaces. “And another chemise.” Breathing no longer hurts. Throwing the covers away, she climbs to her feet, brushing one hand over her face. Three faces linger in her doorway. “I wish to see my daughter.”

Two of her ladies flitter within the bedchamber, knowing better than to offer protest. Alysanne waits for her commands to be carried out, breathing in and out slowly. It feels almost as if aught is stuck in her lungs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The low light from the sconces is enough to guide her. Wrapped tightly in furs, Alysanne makes her way down the hallways. The brisk night air fills her lungs, leaving her chilled within. Winter has begun to set in, she tells herself. It would be little wonder to find snow without come morning. Might be even frost, if the Seven see fit, for her and Gael to slide upon.

Her daughter’s bedchamber is quiet. Gael has always been a quiet sleeper, ever since girlhood. Alysanne does not knock. She simply enters with a swish of skirts and a short-lived draft.

The first to greet her sight is a mound upon the bed. Its distinctly inhuman form gives rise to a moment of panic, before the mother realises Gael must have hidden deep beneath. She walks over and begins peeling the layers away one by one, pelts and covers falling to the ground.

Yet there is naught in the middle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Unable to recall for how long she’s been calling out her daughter’s name in a desperate bid to have her returned to her arms, Alysanne tumbles exhausted in her spouse’s arms as soon as he makes his appearance. With tears in her eyes, she begs, “Jaehaerys, find her. She’s not in her bed. My daughter has been taken from me.”

Her husband shushes her gently. “Do not weep, beloved. I am sure Gael is just being mischievous and hiding from us.” She hasn’t done aught of the like since childhood days, but Alysanne accepts the words to alleviate her own fears. Fingers digging into the fabric of his garment she nods her head hesitantly.

“Bring her back,” she manages after a short while.

Jaehaerys is no longer looking at her though; he is speaking to his Kingsguards, instructing them to rouse the Master of Hunt.

Heart in her throat, Alysanne watches him walk off.

The cry rips itself from the depths of her soul, gurgling out of her mouth as she nearly falls in her haste to reach the returning men. Jaehaerys leads the party. When he catches sight of her, his head lowers. The hammer that has been residing in her ribcage slams into the bones fit to break her chest open.

Not waiting for him to dismount, Alysanne jumps upon her husband. “Gael; have you found her?” Jaehaerys’ face is leeched of colour and drawn. “Where is my daughter?”

It is then that she notices the cart being pulled by a single horse. The hand on her shoulder prevents her from leaping forth however. “Alys, I must tell you, before you see her,” his speech cuts off. “Before you see Gael–” Emotion chokes him, but she cannot wait a moment longer.

Shaking his hold off, Alysanne dashes over to the cart, single-minded in her pursuit.      

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

As many other woman, Alysanne has lost children before. A great many number. Her daughter’s pasty face and rigid limbs are greeted with the mournful wail such occurrences often call forth. But as she lifts the girl into her arms, damp hair slinging to waxen cheeks, the grief drops into despair, and the weeping becomes beseeching.

She begs the Mother’s mercy and the Maiden’s protection. But there is no answer.

Familiar arms wrap around her consolingly. “I am so very sorry.”

“Nay. Do not say that,” she entreats. “Do not.” She’s shaking her head, trying to break free.

Jaehaerys draws her away from the body, holding her tightly, turning his back upon the dead Gael, shielding Alysanne from the sight as the men lead the horse away. But it is too late. Like lead, loss sinks into her.  

In the end there is naught she can do but give up, grow boneless in her brother’s arms.

   

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
